Harry Potter and the Auror's Pensive
by Melancholy Quill
Summary: Year 6. As the storm closes in, Harry realizes that the only way his friends will survive is to train for the fight of his life.
1. 1 Eye of the Storm

Chapter 1  
  
Eye of the Storm  
  
The early morning fog from two weeks prior had yet to lift and the creeping scarlet dawn foretold of another wet day for the residents of Little Whinging, Surrey. Although relieved of their complaints of parched grass and dust from the previous season, the steady drizzle did not suit the inhabitants of the sleepy suburbia. The lawns and shrubbery now sparkled green, yet sodden grounds and distant thunder kept young and old inside. Long tired of typical rainy-day amusements, they began to turn to each other for entertainment, or, more often the case, to vent frustration.

Such was the case at number four Privet Drive when a disheveled teenager was jolted out of sleep this gloomy Saturday. A booming voice rang from downstairs, soon mixed a crash and nasally yells. The teen moaned and slowly lifted a plume of black bangs from over a pair of brilliant green eyes. He squinted at his bed-stand clock and could just barely make out the blurred numbers. Twelve o'clock. Noon. He closed his eyes again and allowed his head to fall onto the mattress, shoving the pillow over his head. More muffled shouts from downstairs. He squeezed his eyes tight and tried to pretend he couldn't hear anything. In fact, that is what he had been trying to do for the past two weeks: block out life. Forget where he was, what he was doing, what his family was doing, what he had to do—forget that he was Harry Potter.

CRACK! A great clap of thunder split the air nearby and the lightening illuminated the bars of Hedwig's empty cage against the walls. Harry had sent her with his promised bi-weekly letter to Lupin two days ago, but had not seen her since. He suspected Lupin was holding onto her until this latest storm died down a bit. He didn't mind—Hedwig would need a decent rest after a long flight to London, where he suspected Lupin was staying at the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix...number twelve Grimmauld Place...Sirius' home...

Stop it, he told himself. He clutched the pillow harder over his head, trying to drown out the storm, the shouts from downstairs, the memory of Sirius falling... Familiar blackness started to consume him, almost as if he too, were falling through the veil. He was almost asleep again when his bedroom door flew open and slammed against the wall. He cracked open his eyes under the pillow, but did not move—judging by the clacking heels, it was just Aunt Petunia.

"Still in bed!" she screeched. The heels clattered around the small room, apparently surveying the scene.

"Lazy, useless git," she muttered under her breath, quite Kreatcher-like. He closed his eyes again and the footsteps stopped.

"Up! Now! Your uncle wants a word downstairs!" He didn't move and was swiftly rewarded with the sharp sting of a wooden mixing spoon slapping his back.

"NOW!" In a huff, he threw the pillow from his head and swept off his bed so quickly that Aunt Petunia started. He grabbed his glasses off of his bureau, shoved them on his face, and jumped to his feet.

Suddenly, a sharp pain swept through his head and just as quickly as he had risen, he fell to his bed again. His aunt, who was already by the door, swept back to him as he quietly massaged his forehead. His lightening-bolt scar had split open not two months ago when Lord Voldemort (whom had marked him with that scar as a baby) tore into his body and mind, in an attempt to possess him. Each time his scar had twinged since, the ache was becoming clearer, until his head felt red-raw...almost as though the scar was reverting back into a cut.

"What is wrong with you boy? Are you ill?" A cool hand suddenly embraced his forehead and he jerked up in shock. Aunt Petunia had never once checked his temperature, even that time when he was seven and covered in chicken pox—she had just shoved spoonfuls of bitter pink liquid down his throat and tossed him a bottle of calamine lotion—stop complaining, she had breathed.

"You haven't got a fever," she continued, moving her hand to his cheek. Harry automatically recoiled slightly but, in the next second, surprisingly held down a lump in his throat. He closed his eyes, not daring to hope that his Aunt would greet him with a kind, caring look he had always so desperately longed for. Yet as the pain subsided, the hand did not move. He felt her thumb brush away a tear he did not know had escaped. But the moment his eyes opened, the hand disappeared and was replaced with the retreating form of his Aunt. She paused by the door, not turning around.

"We'll be waiting for you."  
  
Sure enough, five minutes later as Harry slouched into the kitchen, he found the three Dursleys impatiently awaiting his arrival. Dudley's massive frame occupied a chair in the corner, his beefy arms flexing as he picked at the remains of his dinner with the end of his pocket knife, eyes downcast. Aunt Petunia leaned into the sink, dipping her hands in the dishwater, but making no true effort to clean the dishes. Only Uncle Vernon, who had evidently been pacing, stopped his motions and turned toward Harry, his moustache bristling, as it often did when he was upset. Harry hesitated at the door, then, against his better judgment, took a step into the kitchen. He too, cast his eyes downward, and waited to be addressed (as "boy", no doubt...Harry sometimes wasn't sure if Uncle Vernon really knew his name). The air was heavy--still with tension, like the eye of a storm. However, after a moment of silence, Harry glanced up to see his Uncle looking fit to burst. It seemed time to make the first move.  
  
"What," Harry asked.  
  
Wrong choice of words. Uncle Vernon looked as though he might explode, but Harry was bored by this game. He stared his uncle down as fragments of words seemed to escape from under the mustache.  
  
"What...ungrateful...insolent...little...lazy," Uncle Vernon sputtered.  
  
Aunt Petunia looked over her shoulder as Uncle Vernon pointed a sausage- sized finger at the chair next to Dudley.  
  
"Sit."  
  
His hand was shaking and Harry dimly thought that it would be unwise to disobey. He took a seat next to his cousin, who continued to mash peas with his knife. What's he about this time, Harry wondered to himself. Uncle Vernon seemed to hear his thoughts and answered.  
  
"All right. Since you two lads seem to think you are old enough to do as you please, and mind you, you will not continue on as you have been," Vernon, pointing toward Dudley, "You. Are grounded and will behave like a young gentleman (Harry snorted to himself) that attends Smeltings is expected to act: no more gambling, smoking, none of it!"  
  
Aunt Petunia sniffed and moved the dishwater around with her sponge, "It just those friends of his. They forced him into it."  
  
Uncle Vernon solemnly nodded. "No matter, though," he grunted. He squinted his eyes now and rounded on Harry.  
  
"And you," he continued, his voice growing more menacing, "You are permanently grounded."  
  
"What did I do?" Harry yelped incredulously.  
  
"You, lazing around during the day, making a racket every night, acting as though someone's died..."  
  
Harry could not meet his eyes, but his face started to feel hot, mingling somewhere between hurt and fury.  
  
"If you think you can do whatever you please, eating our food, lodging in our house, you are finally going to earn your keep and get a job--"Uncle Vernon started.  
  
"Fine! I'll get a bloody job!" Harry pounded his fist into the table, unable to contain himself. "But don't act as though I've done anything wrong! I haven't been smoking! I haven't been beating kids up and breaking and entering! I never—"  
  
He was cut short as Dudley took the knife and slammed it into the table, an inch from Harry's fist.  
  
"Don't try to pin anything on me Potter! You're the one who's been sneaking around, trying to do...to do magic ("Dudley!" cried Aunt Petunia, looking around nervously) at any turn!" Uncle Vernon turned again on Harry and Dudley seized his chance.  
  
"I've seen him at it dad! Looking at books, muttering...words. What good do you think those bloody useless spells are going to do you Potter?" Dudley sneered.  
  
"Because one day," Harry began calmly, "I'm going to use those bloody useless spells to cause you as much pain as you've caused me."  
  
But just as Harry was no longer afraid of his cousin, Dudley had grown tired of fearing Harry. He lunged at Harry and shoved him hard, pinning him and the chair against the wall. He prodded his knife at Harry's throat. Aunt Petunia gave a little whimper and Uncle Vernon backed off a step.  
  
"Now, son, don't do anything rash," Uncle Vernon looked worried. Aunt Petunia kept muttering under her breath "No Duddy no Duddy no Duddy..."  
  
"You don't have the power to cause pain, you skinny little freak," snarled Dudley, nicking Harry's skin lightly before backing off.  
  
Relieved to see Dudley backing off, Uncle Vernon seemed to regain his confidence, muttering softly, "Except being a pain in the ass to us."  
  
Harry had had enough. He strode toward the kitchen door, but Uncle Vernon blocked his exit. Uncle Vernon opened his mouth, but Harry beat him to it. The words seemed to rush out of him—suddenly the tidal wave of emotion he had been keeping inside of him all summer, silently weeping over Sirius, frustration of being locked indoors, knots of fear balling in his stomach over the prophecy, tore open.  
  
"A pain. A thorn in your side...I get it. That's all I've ever been to you. You don't want me, you've never wanted me...I get it. I know, okay. I KNOW! You didn't want me? Well, I certainly didn't want this! I didn't ask for this! I didn't ask for any of this! You know NOTHING about pain!! See, I get it. You don't get it, do you? DO YOU!? YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT YOU'VE DONE TO ME!"  
  
Harry's breath was ragged. He had so much inside him, so many things to say, but suddenly, all of the pent-up energy seemed to drain and he just looked at the three of them hopelessly.  
  
"I'm done," Harry whispered, "I can't do it anymore. I won't. I'm leaving. Get out of my way."  
  
Uncle Vernon made the mistake of misjudging Harry's determination and gave him a slight shove back to his chair. Harry, anger welled up again like a volcano and he followed his first reaction—he shoved back.  
  
"Why, you hostile little," Uncle Vernon growled and he slammed Harry back, knocking him hard into the wall. Aunt Petunia scuttled over and Dudley cautiously approached the situation, switchblade at the ready.  
  
"Duddums, put that thing away!" Aunt Petunia yelped.  
  
Harry struggled and Uncle Vernon rewarded him with a stinging slap, but Harry wasn't going to give up that easy. He kicked out and tried to scamper away and Uncle Vernon howled and grabbed his shin. Dudley ran in to help his father and received a kick to the thigh as Harry struggled to get up.  
  
"I'll get you, you freak!" Dudley shouted. In one swift movement, he landed on top of his cousin and the knife that was clutched in his hand found Harry's shoulder.  
  
Harry screamed. Aunt Petunia was trying to help Uncle Vernon up, but everyone was rolling around so much, her heels scuttled back, out of harm's way. Harry tried to kick off Dudley, but the weight could not be ignored—he was pinned. He suppressed another screech of agony as the knife plunged deeper, and looked up through watery eyes for a weapon. He reached out hopelessly with his left arm to a vase on top of the refrigerator. Come on! Harry thought hopelessly, grabbing at the air a second time. Suddenly, he felt odd warmth in his fingers, and the vase levitated and vanished. I must be losing it, he thought, when his cousin's harsh weight went limp, the knife dislodged, and he heard the sharp clink of glass breaking around him. He shoved the limp Dudley off and pushed himself up. He readjusted cracked glasses on his nose and stared at his cousin.  
  
Dudley was lying on the floor, out cold, the vase from on top of the fridge shattered all around him. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon were staring at him with looks of terror upon their faces.  
  
"Erm," Dudley moaned. Aunt Petunia rushed over to him and began kissing his head, whimpering. Uncle Vernon just stood looking between the refrigerator and the shattered vase, too shocked for words.  
  
Harry looked at his hands, breathing hard. I couldn't have done that, he thought wildly to himself. That wasn't an accident...I wasn't out of control. I moved that vase. I purposefully moved that vase. Before he had anymore time to think about it, though, he noticed that Uncle Vernon had seemed to regain himself and was helping a disoriented Dudley to his feet.  
  
"I'm...," Harry started, "I'm..." But Harry really wasn't sure what he was. He looked up to see Aunt Petunia staring at him with an offended look in her eyes.  
  
"I...I didn't mean to hurt him," Harry stammered and looked down.  
  
They didn't answer. He saw the blood on his hands—his blood—and added in a whisper, "He was hurting me too."  
  
Aunt Petunia's stare changed, her watery eyes now filled with a look he had never seen before: pity.  
  
"He...is my son," she whispered back, but there was a firmness to her voice.  
  
For some reason, Harry felt as though a poisoned dart had just passed through his heart, hurting more than the aching gash on his back. He knew the Dursleys didn't love him. He had never felt any affection for them either, yet it felt as though something new was breaking in his heart. He managed to nod and made his decision. He walked to the foyer and threw open the front door, but Aunt Petunia started.  
  
"They will kill you!!" she whimpered after him. The house had become deadly silent, only Harry's harsh breaths filling the void.  
  
"He will kill you," she added softly.  
  
Harry stopped dead, standing on the threshold between the foyer and front lawn, safety and freedom, his past and his destiny. He knew this moment would come, the moment he would have to make the choice. As he looked out at a darkened Privet Drive and realized this was the day he had been dreaming about...the moment he was going to be free of the Dursleys forever. But this was not how he imaged it would be. This was not how he imagined it would feel.  
  
"Fine," he said, staring into the darkness, "Let him kill me."  
  
And as he stepped outside, leaving the Dursleys standing dumbfounded at the door, he felt a surge of pain dance across his forehead and a wave a sick joy nauseate him--someone was happy and, like always, it wasn't Harry.


	2. 2 Number Two Wisteria Walk

Chapter 2 Number Two Wisteria Walk  
  
Harry had left the house in a huff three years ago, but this was different. As he reached the end of the Dursleys' drive, the pain in his scar seemed to calm down and his senses started to kick in: he was completely unprotected. The biting rain and unexpectedly cool summer wind brought the situation into clearer focus, and he pulled his wand from his jeans waistband. Still, he couldn't imagine that a member of the Order wouldn't have been tailing him—someone would be sure to spot him and take him back to Headquarters.  
  
No good going back now, he thought. He clutched his wand even tighter and took a step onto the sidewalk. In the miniscule instant he stepped over the boundary of the Dursleys' tiny front lawn, a flashbulb of light shot around the perimeter. Harry glanced down at his own arms, which seemed to have taken on an unearthly shimmer. Yet as quickly as the tingling glow had covered him, it tricked off into darkness, like the remnants of a spectacular firework. The charm had been broken. He was completely exposed.  
  
Harry knew it would be a matter of minutes before he was found—either by the Ministry of Magic, the Order, or (he shuddered at the thought) Lord Voldemort. Preferring it be an Order member, Harry turned his feet toward the north end of Privet Drive and set off in a determined sprint toward Wisteria Walk. The storm had picked up pace—a gale whistled past his ears and he could just barely make out the shape of an unfamiliar brown owl zoom over him, a soggy letter in its beak.  
  
Must be a Ministry owl, Harry mused. Wonder if I've been expelled again. Harry smirked to himself, confidant that any Ministry warnings would be delicate, little slaps on the hand after the episode at the Ministry headquarters last June. Still, his pace unconsciously quickened and he pulled his sweatshirt hood up over the onslaught of rain. He looked down hopelessly at his squishing sneakers as he splashed through small puddles. There has to be a faster way to get to safety, he thought as his scrawny legs failed to keep pace with his pounding heart. His Firebolt, though no longer confiscated, remained at Hogwarts—there seemed to reason to bring it home if he couldn't fly in muggle territory. Then suddenly, the idea smacked him in the head and he skidded to a halt—The Knight Bus.  
  
Disgustedly, he trudged to the end of the sidewalk, berating himself—Your stupidity is going to get you killed one day, Potter. Shaking his head, he went to raise his wand to summon the triple-decker haven of the highways. As his wand rose, he caught a glint of green on his watch face and stopped dead. A bright green, he thought...emerald green. Breath caught in his chest, his eyes widened as the ghostly green glow grew behind him, throwing his shadow on the ground. Slowly, he turned to greet the dreaded sight.  
  
A block away, sinister green emeralds were rising in formation over a lone house. Harry's throat fell to his stomach, which seemed to have left his body all together. As the Dark Mark took form over number four Privet Drive, Harry yelled—not because of the terrorizing sign rising high above the trees, but due to the black-cloaked figure running straight at him.  
  
"Expellaramus!"  
  
Harry had shouted the first incantation that came to his mind. Despite the wind, the spell soared straight at the chest of its victim and hit it with surprising force. The cloaked figure flew back and hit a nearby light pole, where is crumpled to the ground, unmoving. Harry did not move toward his victim, but kept his wand at the ready. There was no movement, but a moment later a tiny 'clink' caught Harry's attention and something rolled out from under the mass of crumpled material and began to float down the gutter toward the storm drain. Harry squinted, trying to see what the object was, which still keeping his wand trained on the lump. It bobbled back and forth, rushing closer to the drain. Finally, when it was in two feet of Harry, he saw it: an eyeball. A large, electric blue eyeball, glancing every which way, finally resting on 'up' as it was sucked into the drain and echoed a great 'kerplop' a moment later.  
  
Terrified, Harry dropped his wand and turned toward the immobile lump. Abandoning his better sense, he reached down at the layers of black cloth and pulled them away. The unconscious form of Mad-Eye Moody rested before him, one eye closed, the other gaping open, and a small trickle of blood dripping down his forehead.  
  
Harry swore, gently shaking the enormous, disfigured frame.  
  
"Professor Moody," he urged, "Professor Moody wake up!"  
  
But Moody didn't rouse. Panicked, Harry started muttering under his breath, the obscenities pouring out and he turned back to pick up his wand.  
  
My wand, Harry looked around alarmed—it was not where he had dropped it. He ran over to the edge of the sidewalk, where he spotted his wand making its way down the street gutter, like a discarded piece of driftwood.  
  
"NO!" Harry yelled as he sprinted off after it. He slipped off the edge and threw his hand into the storm drain just as his wand disappeared underneath it. Incredibly, Harry pulled his hand back with a fist full of...water.  
  
No wand, the feeble voice in Harry's head began to swim around his brain over and over. You lost your wand, the voice began to tell him. Harry reached out and did the only thing he could.  
  
"Accio wand!" He yelled at the drain. Nothing.  
  
"Accio wand!" He shouted again, his arms stretching into the drain. "ACCIO WAND!"  
  
Nothing hit his hand but the murky water pouring in. The panic was suffocating him. He turned to see the Dark Mark, still high in the sky jesting him, as his stomach tied itself in knots and his brain jammed. No wand, no Knight Bus, no Moody. He shivered and realized his injured shoulder was starting to ache. He looked around wildly for the solution when he noticed the street sign for Wisteria Walk. He stumbled up and began to trot toward the place he had meant to go in the first place: Mrs. Figg's house.  
  
As he went, he picked up his pace, keeping one eye on any activity, the other on Mrs. Figg's house. Her front porch was just coming into view when Harry distinctively heard two small popping noises in the distance—apparation. He pushed himself to run harder despite ragged breaths and a stitch in his side and vaulted onto her porch at a breakneck speed as he heard another 'pop', much closer this time. He raced to the door, which threw magically open and he skidded inside and slammed it behind him. A slew of meowing, clawing cats greeted him and in another second, Mrs. Figg took a step out of her bathroom.  
  
"Where have you been!?" Mrs. Figg lamented, "I've been worried sick!" 


	3. 3 The Cat's Meow

Chapter 3

The Cat's Meow

Harry stumbled into the house as Mrs. Figg shooed him in anxiously, slamming the door shut behind him. He could barely hear the clatter of numerous chains sealing his safety over the horrid wale of cat meows. Apparently, the growing commotion from the street had them in a state of distress. Harry glanced out the window to see heads now poking out of warm houses into the damp night, shouts of wonder being thrown from porch to porch between nosy neighbors wondering what on earth that fantastic firework could be. A siren droned steadily in the background—apparently the local fire department was coming to investigate.

Harry attempted to make his way through the maze of cats, dodging tails fluffed like raccoons and trying to ignore the feline wail that was increasing his headache. Mrs. Figg was now scuttling from window to window, casting fervent looks outside for any sign of the enemy, and snapping each drape closed as she passed. Harry, finally spotting the couch, took a few steps toward it, his tired shoes squelching over the hard wood floor. He was almost there when he nearly tripped over a cat he knew to be Snowball, who had come screeching over from a dark corner where another cat meow seemed to rise in distress above the others.

"Mrs. Figg," Harry began, "Your cats—"

"Shh!" Mrs. Figg admonished, suddenly flicking off the lights. The were plunged into near-darkness, the only light coming from the feeble fire flickering in the hearth and the distant green of the Dark Mark. Harry found the couch and sunk into its depths, putting his head in his hands and trying to think clearly. _Voldemort knows I'm in Little Whinging, I've knocked Moody out cold, I've lost my wand, and I'm probably surrounded by Death Eaters_, he thought miserably. _THINK, _he tried to press his over-stimulated head, but all that came through was the hollow in his stomach and the chill that had taken over him.

Suddenly, a strong hand gripped his shoulder from behind. He tensed for an instant, but whirled around to see only a distraught Mrs. Figg staring into his eyes.

"Did they see you?" she demanded.

"Who?" Harry replied.

"Anyone!" she said frantically, dropping his gaze and retreating into the kitchen. He could hear her fumbling around cabinets in the dark, the clink of glass against medal. "Did anyone see you leave the Dursleys? Did you see anything odd or suspicious?"

"Erm..." he began. His head was still fuzzy, and he felt oddly disconnected as he watched Snowball the cat clawing and gnawing at the hem of his soaked jeans. He began retracing his steps from the time he left the Dursley's front steps out loud. She gave a small grunt when he mentioned the owl, but sharply turned around when he mentioned the fiasco with Moody.

"Moody?" she practically shouted, "Mad Eye Moody? You knocked out Mad Eye?"

Harry hung his head. In addition to contemplating his mistake, the constant shriek of the mystery cat-in-the-corner was starting to severely irritate him.

"I didn't mean to! I thought he was a Death Eater!" he blurted out, "And then I lost my wand, I lost my damn wand, and I ran here and I heard pops and I didn't know what to do, what in the world are we going to do?" He paused for a moment, taking in the gravity of the current situation.

"We're still here," he continued, "We've got to get out of here. Now."

"Drink."

"What?" Harry asked, confused, as a cup of steaming liquid was shoved into his face.

"It's a calming potion." She thrust the small mug toward him again, but instead of accepting the drink, he stood up in anger and frustration.

"It's not exactly the time to calm down!" he yelped. At sixteen, he now towered over Mrs. Figg's squat stature. "We've got to get the hell out of here! We don't have any time!"

"We can't just run, silly boy", she retorted. "Exactly how far do you think you'll get, mm?"

"We can at least try to make a run for it," Harry pouted. He didn't understand how she could be so complacent. She had been so worried about finding him and now she just wants to sit here?

"Besides, where is someone from the Order?" Harry continued with a hint of accusation in his voice, "Everyone was so intent on having me followed for the past year, don't you have a back-up plan?"

"We did," she answered coolly, "But you knocked him unconscious. You're lucky that I'm here boy. I'm the one the one who always looks after you, I'm the one who always pulls you out of tight spots and it seems I've done a damn good job of it so far."

Harry backed down for a moment. He wasn't used to seeing Mrs. Figg this narcissistic, but, then again, she had been there to find him after the dementor attack last year and she must have tired of the long years of being Harry Potter's unsung eyes and ears. The depression eating at him all summer seemed to take another small bite inside: again, to another person, he was nothing more than a burden.

"It will take a while for another Order member to arrive," she added, more quietly, "We're going to sit tight until someone arrives."

Harry's gloom turned to indignity in an instant: he couldn't just sit and wait to be discovered, "We can't just sit here and do nothing!"

"Oh yes you can, Harry Potter," she wagged her finger at him, "You are still a child and have behaved as a child all night. I will not allow your rash actions to get us both killed. Now be a good boy and drink...your...potion."

Her voice was now laced with authority and sarcasm: somehow her short stature didn't manage to undermine her presence. Face burning, he took the steaming mug from her and flounced back on the chair.

"This smells like sewage," he sniffed in a half-hearted attempt to regain his dignity.

"I told you boy, it's a calming potion," she sighed, "Now shut up and drink up so I can think."

Harry wrinkled his nose and took a sip. It didn't taste half bad—almost like licorice, but with sickly sweet aftertaste. Mrs. Figg finally rewarded him with a slight smile of approval and he took another sip. His racing heart seemed to have slowed to a trot, and his brain slowly returned to a semi-normal state. The room was silent as Mrs. Figg paced back and forth in front of the weak fire and Harry continued to quietly nurse the potion.

"I thought you couldn't, you know, do magic," Harry mused quietly.

Mrs. Figg paused in front of the fireplace.

"And why is that, dear," she asked quietly.

Harry was momentarily confused. "Well, because, you're a...a...well, you know..."

"Ah," said Mrs. Figg, "So you think that I'm unable to concoct a simple potion with common ingredients simply because I'm unable to perform a spell?"

_Now is the time for you to shut up,_ he berated himself. He occupied himself with gulping down the scalding liquid as Mrs. Figg turned her back to him and began drawing the remaining curtains, shielding the glow of the green skull from view. She continued to scuttle around the room noiselessly, making sure every crack was sealed.

Harry, his brain now running at seemingly its normal rate, was beginning to turn again. He set the mug down on the floor next to him and began to ponder the near future as Snowball the cat took to lapping up the remains of his potion. _An order member is going to come bring us to safety—probably leave by brooms...no, floo powder_...Harry stopped.

"Mrs. Figg," he turned to call to her, but she remained hunched over a window, squirting something in a crack in the corner. Upon closer look, she was filling the crack with a can of Squeeze-Cheese.

"_Mrs. Figg," _he called again, but as he twisted toward her a hot pain tore through the back of his shoulder. _Oh yeah, _Harry groaned to himself, _I forgot about that._

He turned back to the fire and groaned again as the cat-in-the-corner gave another particularly screeching 'meow'. Harry's headache, which he seemed to have forgotten about, came around two-fold to accompany the ache in his shoulder.

_What the hell is wrong with that cat?_ he wondered listlessly. _Hmm...maybe I should feed it some of the potion too_, Harry mused, suddenly amused by the site in front of him. Snowball wasn't wailing anymore...he had curled up into a little snowball at his feet.

As Harry watched Snowball's sleeping form, he sank deeper into the couch—it suddenly dawned on him how tired he was. The events of the night seemed to have spun so quickly around him and now he was just flowing down the drain, being washed away with everything that had happened...

His head had almost hit the back of the couch when a loud CRASH sprung him back to consciousness. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a large object fall to a heavy thud in the shadows of her living room and a flash of dark fur fly straight at him. In an instant, the cat had pounced on his feet, knocking over the remains of his potion, and jumped into his lap, meowing forcefully.

_This cat is more mental than...than_, Harry started, but suddenly couldn't remember the name of Hermione's cat. _She has a cat, right? Her-mi-o..._

Impatiently, the cat pushed its way up Harry, resting it's front paws on his chest and still it's little pink nose in his face. Somewhere far, far away, he could hear Mrs. Figg yelling at the cat and the cry of the fire trucks zooming past the house.

"_Meow_," said the cat, looking his straight in his eyes.

Harry giggled slightly to himself. He looked at the tabby in front of him and thought, _I don't speak Cat, you silly cat. I speak Parsel..._

Harry stopped dead. Inches from the cat' face, he saw it. On either side of the cat's eyes were markings. Markings in the fur that he was extremely familiar with—this wasn't any ordinary cat—it was Professor McGonnagal. Harry stared, dumbfounded for a moment, before he felt another wave of lightheadedness hit him and he smiled.

"Meow, Professor," he whispered, "What are you doing here?"

He reached up to pat his transfiguration teacher on the head, but found that his hand didn't move. Professor McGonnagal's cat-head began to furiously knead at Harry's dropping head, when a great swipe came out of nowhere and threw her from Harry's lap. Surprisingly, the cat didn't run away—she leapt back onto Harry's lap and hissed at her captor, who was brandishing a frying pan and a can of Squeeze-Cheese. Mrs. Figg stood over them, her usually kind face distorted with anger.

Harry desperately tried to move, tried to think, but it was no use. He struggled to attack, but realized he hadn't even managed to move his shoulders a centimeter from the couch. The blow came strong, and Professor McGonnagal's cat body flew across the room, where it remained still. Harry dared not breath as Mrs. Figg stood over him. Oddly calm, she took his arms together and pointed the can of cheese at them. She sprayed the contents over his wrists, and in the next moment, it bound his wrists together like concrete.

"It's about time you settled down, boy," Mrs. Figg simpered at him, "I have someone who has been waiting for you."


	4. 4 A Single Hour

**4 A Single Hour**

The following hour was the shortest of his life.

He longed to remain still, to allow his stunned senses to sink into the couch below him. Instead, a torrent of images chased him, violently clashing with his common sense.

Mrs. Figg. Her kindly face, upturned in a smirk, dragging him off the couch…_no_…

Professor McGonnagal. Animagus, sprawled unconscious across the floor…_no_…

Green light. Mixed with the thunder, as the wail of engines retreated to the safety of their fire houses…_no_……

The world was moving, tugging at him...fading, swirling away in a haze of color..._no, no, no_...

Cold. Unmerciful cold, blanketing him, wrapping around him until he couldn't breathe. The recent pleasant grogginess that filled his mind was replaced by a dull, frozen ache that seemed to permeate his bones. It took him a moment before he realized he was wet. Struggling against the pressure in his lungs, he realized he had regained the strength to move his neck a bit. Suddenly, a hand plunged into the wetness and brought him to the sweet air. Coughing and gasping, he searched his surroundings through watery eyes.

The world was dim.

He was no longer in Mrs. Figg's house...he doubted he was anywhere near Wisteria Walk. The glow of green hate had been replaced by the dying embers of a weak fire, which cast a flickering glow on his dismal surroundings. The air, which an instant ago seemed so inviting and sweet, settled in his lungs quite rank and musty—a rotting smell permeated from a corner. A splintered table lurked nearby, piles of dusty boxes littered the room, and a rickety staircase led to the darkness above. Harry shifted his shoulders and realized he was resting in a large tin tub, up to his chest in cold water. He made to pull himself out when he fell back—his wrists were still bound.

He started as a shadow shuffled down the staircase toward the fire. He struggled to hold himself up and found that his bindings shifted a bit, slightly disintegrated by the water. Harry blinked and gazed at the silhouette that continued to make its way toward him. Judging by the frumpy clothes, carpet slippers, and the shuffling gate, it was Mrs. Figg.

"Figg?" Harry gasped, "Mrs...Mrs. Figg..." He could think of nothing else to say.

But as Mrs. Figg turned toward him, her familiar face faded into a sour countenance. The deep valleys around the mouth and eyes smoothed to a perfect complexion and her straggly hair lengthened into silvery blonde strands. Within seconds, the svelte figure of Narcissa Malfoy towered above his prone form.

His voice failed him. Over and over the silent words played on his lips..._no, no, this isn't happening, no, no, no, no_...

Narcissa's smirk widened to a grin as she shed the carpet slippers and swaggered over to the fire. Harry turned back to himself, the flood of chaotic thoughts hitting him like the cold water. _Mrs. Figg is Mrs. Malfoy...polyjuice...rotten, so rotten...Malfoy...Lucious...Death Eaters...death..._

Panic set in and Harry began to furiously work at the softened bindings on his wrists. Narcissa had her back to him, poking the ailing fire with a long stick. Harry continued to knead at the bindings, which had now taken on a rubbery texture. _Come on_, he urged himself, but thin layers merely disintegrated, leaving him struggling as Narcissa pulled out a long, silver blade from her robes. She didn't seem to notice or care about his fervent struggle to separate his wrists as she took the blade and held it over the fire. A whimper of frustration escaped his lips, and she finally turned to face him, red-hot blade at her side.

"Oh, don't worry, precious," Narcissa purred, "This isn't for you."

Narcissa made her way toward the corner emanating the rotting smell, waving the glowing blade about, before she halted. Harry shrunk back as she made a ninety degree turn and sauntered over to the tub.

She snickered and leaned over him. "Yet."

With a mighty gulp, he shoved his upper torso under the water, pressing his back against the bottom of the tub, and kicked his legs up as hard as he could right at Narcissa's face. He felt the impact long before Narcissa's almighty howl filled the air. He gave one final yank at his wrists and finally the bindings snapped like a rubber band and flew across the room. He sloppily stood up in the tub, taking a second to assess his surrounding. There would be no question of it. Tripping out of the tub, he kicked off Narcissa's hands, which were groping for his legs, and ran blindly up the stairs.

To his surprise, the heavy door at the top of the stairs flew open into a dark, dank shop that filled him with a familiar dread—he'd been in this shop before. Summer before his second year he had watched an imposing man with long, silvery hair selling questionable items to the squat owner from his hiding place in a mummy's tomb. And now, as his eyes raked the store for the exit, they fell upon a set of cold, gray eyes that wove through his nightmares for the past two years.

For a brief second, Harry stood frozen as his eyes locked with Lucious Malfoy's. He could not move as Malfoy's thin lips registered Harry's presence with a slight smile and his hand made the slightest gesture. From the back room emerged more faces that made his blood run cold. Nott...Dolohov...Rabastan. Bellatrix.

Harry barely registered Narcissa trudging up the stairs behind him.

"Merry Christmas," she simpered at Lucious, from behind a bloody nose.

As each face stared in shocked surprise and slowly settled into a seething sneer, the blood rushed back up to Harry's brain and solidified into a single word: _Run._

Before the others could move, Harry was out of the shop. His brain did not seem to be running as fast as the thumping of his heart. _Diagon Alley. I've got to get to Diagon Alley. _He took a chance and darted off toward the right.

It was still dark outside and Harry fleetingly found it odd that he was dodging crowds despite the early morning hours. He was running as fast as his legs could carry him, but he could hear the Death Eaters easily slicing through the crowd behind him.

"No magic!" he heard Malfoy shriek as they closed in on Harry, " Get him, but no magic!"

Harry's soaked sneakers squeaked in protest as he darted around the corner down the last stretch of Knockturn Alley...miraculously, in front of him lay a glimpse of the neatly cobbled sidewalks of Diagon Alley. A bubble of hope blossomed in his chest as he pushed on toward his haven with an extra burst of energy he didn't know he had. He was mere feet away from the entrance when it happened—he slipped.

The fraction of a second he took to steady himself was the opportunity his pursuers were looking for. He was hit hard in the back and another blow sent him flying against the alley wall. Before he had a second to catch his breath, a foot connected with his side in a mighty crunch and he slammed against a couple of dustbins that clanged away angrily. He squinted at his attackers through teary eyes and saw the glimmer of Diagon Alley lurking just out of his reach. _So close. _Narcissa was hovering nearby, keeping watch as even more figures in hooded masks seemed to apperate around the action.He balled himself up against the torrent of blows, but the Death Eaters were aiming low—they were trying to take out his legs. It took them only a moment to succeed. Lucious delivered a powerful kick to his right leg and Bellatrix grabbed the limp limb and yanked it upward with a mighty crack. Harry shrieked in pain and cried out for help from the masses, but to no effect. He felt his bubble of hope burst as the faceless shadows wandering in the background made no movement to stop the beating. They behaved just as members of the underworld should—quiet, un-noticing, heartless. Fright and disbelief were replaced by anger, and Harry began screaming and cursing at the Death Eaters, the apathetic nocturnes, the injustice...the world.

As many arms lifted him and began to drag him back to the shop, Harry continued his verbal assault. As they passed by the other shops, onlookers averted their eyes from the scuffle. One of the Death Eaters offered the explanation of "shoplifter" to those curious whose eyes lingered too long.

As they dragged him back into the shop, he was fighting back the rising urge to throw up and give in to the sick comprehension that he was being brought down to his death. He had lost any hope of being rescued, but refused to go without a fight. When Nott gave his injured leg a prod, he lashed out with a new stream of obscenities. Quicker than a spell, he was delivered a bone-crushing punch to his jaw, stunning him into silence.

"Such language, Potter," came a drawling voice right in front of him. There stood the snide figure of Draco Malfoy, leaning against the entrance of the cellar.

"Get out of the way, Draco," Narcissa snarled at her son as the group dragged Harry down into the abyss. Lost in these thoughts, he barely registered the growing crowd of enemies as he was pulled down the rickety staircase, his broken leg scraping painfully along each step. Draco hesitantly entered the cellar as Harry was unceremoniously dropped onto the table he had seen earlier and quickly bound to it at the wrists and ankles.

Something was wrong. The Death Eaters had backed up, forming a circle around the table that Harry was strapped to. They were quietly swaying as one and began a low toned chant. Suddenly, the entire contents of the tin tub he had awoken in was thrown over his body. The cold water startled him, but it didn't prepare him for the swift movement of Bellatrix breaking from the crowd and climbing on top of the table with Harry. She stepped over him and glanced over to a darkened corner of the room, as though asking permission. Harry could not twist around to see who she was staring at, but in the next instant, she broke into a terrible smile. Narcissa pulled back from the group and began to push Draco back to the stairs.

"Back upstairs," she said quietly, "You're too young to see this."

Draco made a face at her, but upon glancing at Harry strapped to the table, made toward the stairs.

"Let him stay," Lucious said moving out of line and laying a hand on Draco's shoulder, "He should watch."

Harry stared at the silvery-haired family in disgust, but Draco's face was unreadable. He wasn't wearing his usual sneer and his young frame looked out of place among the waves of black cloth. His attention was pulled back to Bellatrix, as she smiled squatted over him and began to outlined the edge of Harry's prominent rib cage with her finger. He was sickened and puzzled by her touch, until she lay her entire palm against his chest and began to press down hard.

"No...God..." Harry gasped, wriggling to get free, "Stop...no..."

Bellatrix grinned and continued to crush his ribcage mercilessly. The rest of the Death Eaters were shifting around in excitement, but Draco remained stark still, occasionally granting his father a weak smile. Another push brought him back to his predicament, and Harry protested the only last way he had—he spit in Bellatrix's face.

She lurched back, stunned and disgusted. The fire in her eyes erupted and he was hit with a vicious backhand. He barely had time to recover from her strike before he realized she had climbed up on the table over him and began to viciously pummel his exposed center. He cried out in pain and tried to tighten his stomach, but it was no use—he had no way to defend himself. She continued to deliver ruthless blows and Harry bit his lip so hard that it bled. The other Death Eaters were trying to pull her off of him, but not before her knee met his chest and Harry felt something inside him snap.

"That will do, Bella, playtime is over" came a high, cold voice from the recesses of the cellar, "He must be conscious for the spell to work."

A chill swept through the room. Bellatrix backed off, incensed, but hid her face as Voldemort emerged from the darkness. The same coldness that accompanied a dementor's presence filled his panicked mind as Voldemort advanced on Harry. Harry tried to scream, but his breath caught in his chest. He couldn't move an inch. His broken body was bound to the table, and the pain in his chest incapacitated him. The remaining Death Eaters closed in, circling around like vultures on dying prey. He could barely make out Voldemort wielding the knife that Narcissa had held minutes before. In the instant that Voldemort levitated himself onto the table and straddled Harry's prone form, a jolt of realization hit him: Voldemort was here, touching him, and his scar wasn't hurting. Before he had another moment to ponder this anomaly, Voldemort rested his weight on Harry's beaten chest and waved the knife in front of his face.

"And now, Harry Potter," Voldemort whispered as he rested the tip of the knife on Harry's scar, "I'm taking back what you stole from me fifteen years ago. _Extractorium_."

The following hour was the longest of his life.


End file.
